


Flying by Wire

by Nova_Bomb



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Poor Wash gets his noggin scrambled, RvB Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 02:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9050989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova_Bomb/pseuds/Nova_Bomb
Summary: Wash has had his fair share of head trauma, but what else is new?





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Secret Santa gift for the wonderful [Wordsy](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)!  
> Merry Christmas, friend!! :)

More often than not, Agent Washington has to remind himself who he is and where he is when he wakes up.

Somewhere in the reach between dreams and the waking world, the details he’s so painstakingly separated all get tangled up again, like a million little threads knotted and snarled. Wash has improved over the years, at slowly and meticulously working out the snags, untangling the threads and separating them out. It takes time, but Agent Washington’s patience is born of stubbornness.

But there _are_ some days it feels like too much. When it would be far easier to twist his fingers into the threads, pulling as the strands bite into his hands, until they snap.

Now is shaping up to be one of those times.

A loud alarm blares in his ears, the sound sending ripples through the blood in his brain. It hurts. It hurts a lot. He grasps for answers, searching desperately for a loose end. There’s a crushing pressure in his head, but he finds the memory he’s looking for. The most important strand.

_Your name is Agent Washington._

Wash’s eyes fly open but it doesn’t help. Nausea churns his insides as his vision dips and sways before his eyes. Everything is moving, but there is a flashing red light and his head _hurts._ His neck hurts too and Wash reaches a hand up to cover his implants.

Where is he? How long has he been out?

_“Only a few days, this time.”_

The strand catches in a knot, but Wash pulls at the thread enough to remember. Purple armour on either side of him. The Dakota twins, North and South.

But Wash doesn’t see any colour, save for the flashing red light. The alarm drones on but Wash remembers this too.

They’re crashing. The _Mother of Invention_ is going down.

Heart hammering panic takes hold of his limbs, even as he desperately scrambles for purchase on the walls around him. He’s going to be sick and it feels like his helmet is crumpling inward, slowly caving his skull. Wash reaches a hand up to his helmet, fumbling for the pressure seals, but his movements are sluggish, his fingers not responding the way they should.

He scours his mind for an explanation; how and why, but the ends are too frayed to make sense of it. Everything is tied up too tightly and the coloured strands all blend together. Which one is right? Which one is the here and now? Which-?

Blue.

Washington pauses as the colour fills his vision.

Not quite blue. More like the tropical waters of some ocean on Earth. Too much green. Turquoise? Aqua? What did Carolina always call it?

“Cr’lina!”

He slurs her name badly, but her gaze snaps to his immediately so it still counts as a victory.

She drops in front of him and slowly helps him pull off his helmet. Every little bump sends a shockwave through his skull, and Wash screws his eyes shut and clenches his fists. She must be speaking, but he can’t make out the words over the ringing.

How is she here? Agent Carolina was killed by Agent Maine. She fell – just like Maine fell. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. They need to abandon ship – get as far away as possible. Maybe they can save _all_ of them this time.

With renewed purpose, Wash opens his eyes and reaches out to grab her arm. “Carolina,” he says again, with a little more success, “Maine. We gotta get ‘em out of ‘is head.”

His vision is still swimming, but Wash can see the way her posture stills.

A hand falls heavy on his shoulder, solid and steady. The first real thing he’s felt since waking up. Washington clings to it. His head still throbs and everything’s knotted together, but he holds on to the sensation, tethering him to reality.

The voice cuts through the haze, but it doesn’t belong to Carolina. “Wash. C’mon dude, breathe.”

He knows that voice. Washington knows that voice but it doesn’t belong here. Not in this memory. He tries desperately to follow the strands, but his fingers catch on the knots and Wash doesn’t know where he is. _When_ he is. It’s too much. Every little tug just pulls the knots tighter and maybe this time he won’t be able to untangle them.

“Wash.”

The teal soldier reaches a hand up and pulls off their own helmet. Washington can see it in his mind so perfectly; the wild red hair falling into those too-bright green eyes. Eyes that he’s seen so many times before – in a mirror, from a small girl’s round face, or glaring through thin, rectangular frames back at him and the other Freelancers.

But those aren’t the eyes he sees now.

These eyes are brown. Deep and dark and Wash could almost drown in them. There’s a gentle hand beneath his chin, tilting his head upward as they search Wash’s eyes, brows pulling into a worried frown at what he sees.

Wash studies the face as he follows the strand, carefully freeing it from the coiled mess of memories. Not Carolina. Same armour colour, different face, different life. His dreads are pulled messily back and Wash always wonders how he fits them all under his helmet. The strand is aqua and dark blue, but there’s also red, maroon, orange, pink and purple, and the colours are far too bright for Project Freelancer.

It finally dawns on Wash, why the face looks so wrong. There’s the distinct absence of a shit eating grin that he’s used to seeing.

He frees the strand from the mess, and Wash’s voice sounds far clearer when he speaks. “Tucker.”

The sim trooper blows out a deep breath as a relieved smile splits its lips. “Fuck,” he breathes in a shaky voice. “Don’t scare me like that, dude.”

Wash tries to force a smile of his own, but it’s more of a wince than anything else. “Sorry,” he croaks.

Tucker’s hand moves from his chin to the side of his jaw, holding his face. Wash’s heart is still pounding but he can feel the warmth, even through the heavy Kevlar gloves.

“Just breathe, dude,” Tucker urges, “I got you.”

For a few minutes that’s all they do. Tucker is so close that Wash can feel his breath ghosting across his skin. Wash’s memories are still knotted together, but at least he isn’t alone. Though the pain in his head doesn’t let up, Wash’s heart rate does slow to some semblance of normal.

Tucker’s thumb strokes absently across his jaw. “You got banged up pretty badly,” he admits, “You remember what happened?”

Agent Washington looks around and sees things clearly for the first time. They’re not on the _Mother of Invention._ This is the fuselage of a pelican. There is no alarm either, only the ringing in his ears. Unfortunately, none of this sparks any recollection.

 _Start with the basics,_ he reminds himself.

Wash sifts through the strands of memories, working out the knots, looking for an answer. He remembers sand, he remembers snow, and he remembers another crash, different from the first. When the _Hand of Merope_ went down, he wasn’t alone.

_Freckles, shake!_

“Chorus!” Wash blurts. He tugs harder on the thread and he remembers Kimball and Doyle, Locus and- “Felix.”

The thought is punctuated with a sharp pain in his thigh, but when his hand darts down, Tucker catches his wrist with impressive speed.

“Dude, I used all our biofoam on it, so I swear to god…”

Wash looks down at the neat little slice in the inner thigh of his Kevlar suit. He can clearly see the pink-stained biofoam leaking from the tear. Tucker’s voice fades and Wash isn’t ready for the onslaught of memories.

Because unknitting them isn’t always a slow, arduous process. Sometimes they come back fast, like a thread snagged on a sharp corner, pulling until everything unravels in his hands.

Wash remembers the mission, though there are details missing. Just a supply run until Locus and Felix showed up. They were outnumbered, badly. They had to retreat. Wash remembers the knife in his leg, the roar of the pelican’s engines and the wailing alarm of a rocket locked onto their aircraft. Their pelican was shot down.

“Wash! C’mon, stay with me!”

Tucker’s voice brings him back, but Washington’s heart is already hammering with renewed dread. Their pelican was shot down, which means Locus and Felix will come looking for them.

“We have to go, now!”

Wash jolts to his feet, but the world flickers and spins, and when did he get so close to Tucker?

“What the fuck!?” Tucker curses, barely managing to keep Wash upright. “Like hell we are! We need to call for a ride outta here and _you_ need to sit the fuck down!”

Washington rights himself, holding on to the sim trooper’s shoulders. “Tucker, we can’t. Locus and Felix will have sent someone after us. I’ll be fine. We need to go _now_.” For emphasis, Wash manages to extricate himself from Tucker’s grip and stand firmly on his feet (for the most part).

Tucker gives him a dubious look, but by the indignation in his eyes, he must know Wash is right.

With a soft growl, Tucker bends down and retrieves both their helmets. “Fine,” he concedes sharply. The sim trooper thrusts the helmet into Wash’s hands, albeit gingerly. “But as soon as we get far enough away, we’re taking cover and stitching up that leg.”

Wash nods but immediately regrets it, the motion sending a fresh spike of pain lancing through his skull. Before Tucker can argue further, he pulls his helmet over his head and turns to look towards the cockpit.

Tucker catches his look and shakes his head solemnly before donning his own helmet.

There’s a lump in his throat and Wash should remember the pilot’s name. She was a Federal Army soldier, flown at least five separate missions for Wash. He _knows_ her name, but the memory eludes him and the only moniker he can recall is Four-Seven-Niner.

Is she dead too? Another ghost of Project Freelancer?

_“Recovery one, please confirm the previous directive.”_

Wash turns away and walks over to the pelican bay door. He hits the release button and though the metal gives a painful creak, the doors don’t budge.

Tucker curses under his breath and the cabin is abruptly filled with a bright blue glow. “Move, dude.”

Wash obliges and the sim trooper makes short work of the door with his energy sword, slicing through the steel like tissue paper. When the doors fall away, Wash struggles from slipping into another memory.

It reminds him immediately of New Colombo.

Before Freelancer, he did a tour on Algolis, helping evacuate the colony from a Covenant attack. This was what Colombo looked like, after all the fighting.

The city is in ruin, having seen far too many artillery strikes. Wind howls through the bones of derelict buildings, crumbled and decayed. A ghost town. It’s not quite the same though. In Colombo, the streets ran red with blood and the smell of plasma burns clung to his armour long after they left the planet.

Tucker is already moving and Wash dutifully follows.

They walk in silence, their footsteps echoing loud through the empty streets. Wash tries to recall the name of this city. He probably saw it on the map when they briefed for the mission, but like so much else from before the crash, he can’t remember.

Tucker stays several paces ahead; he’s angry. He wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. Despite the way he carries himself tall, Wash doesn’t miss the slight limp in his step. An injury from before the crash or after, he isn’t sure.

An hour passes when Wash starts lagging behind. Though his healing unit is making a valiant effort, he’s exhausted. Between blood loss and the nonstop pounding in his skull, Wash isn’t sure how much longer he can keep at it. At this rate he’s only slowing Tucker down; he could cover far more ground without Wash.

Planting his feet, the Freelancer looks up at Tucker. He only gets a few steps further before he stops too, turning around to look at Wash expectantly. There’s something accusatory there, in the tilt of his chin and the set of his shoulders.

Wash can feel his legs sway beneath him when the sim trooper starts back towards him. “Tucker you should-”

“Don’t you _dare_ fucking say it.”

The amount of venom in his voice catches Wash off guard.

Tucker marches up to him and pulls Wash’s arm over his shoulder. “There’s a hospital just a few blocks away. We can duck in there and wait for help. I’m. Not. Leaving you.”

Washington opens his mouth to object, but the words catch in his throat at the tone of Tucker’s voice. The sim trooper drags him bodily forward and all Wash can do is follow.

By the time they reach the hospital Wash can see that Tucker is exhausted too. His chest rises and falls heavily with the added exertion and he coughs into his elbow once his helmet is off. He adamantly ignores any searching looks from Wash, though.

The majority of the hospital has been gutted for supplies, but they luck out on one of the upper level operating rooms. Probably because no one ventures that high for fear of the floor giving out. It’s a very real possibility, but both Wash and Tucker elect to ignore it. The sun is beginning to sink, but they find a recovery room where enough light still falls through a broken window.

Tucker remains abnormally quiet as he begins to work. Not even a lewd joke when he cuts open Wash’s survival suit from his knee to his groin. Now Tucker’s really starting to scare him.

Leaning his head back against the wall, Wash is about to open his mouth to speak when Tucker douses his cut with antiseptic and his words turn to a hiss. Still, Wash manages to find his tongue. “Tucker… I’m not sure why you’re angry, but-”

“Really?” he snaps. “No idea? How about I’m-sick of all your self-sacrificing bullshit, asshole.”

Wash opens and closes his mouth but Tucker isn’t even looking at him, too busy freeing a suture from its packaging. When their eyes meet, Wash isn’t prepared for the desperation in Tucker’s eyes; the fear and the anger.

“Tell me that isn’t what you were going to say back there, Wash. To leave you behind, _again._ ”

The guilt is a crushing weight settled in Wash’s chest and he wishes he could deny it. Instead he focuses on “again.” What did Tucker mean by that? Was this about crash site Bravo, about collapsing the tunnel? Because they’ve hashed and rehashed that argument more than a dozen times.

He tries to speak, but that’s the precise moment Tucker decides to pierce his skin with the needle. Washington grits his teeth, though it only succeeds in worsening his headache. At this point he really isn’t sure which pain is worse.

Pushing past the discomfort, Wash finally manages to get a word out. Barely. “Tucker, if this is about the canyon-”

A harsh laugh escapes Tucker’s lips and while it’s not quite friendly, some of the anger does leave his eyes. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

Washington can feel his cheeks flush with embarrassment as he turns his eyes towards the window.

Tucker coughs into his elbow again, but when he speaks his voice is far gentler. “It’s kinda your fault we’re in this mess, dude.”

Wash bites his tongue on the protest that forms on his lips. Instead he watches Tucker work in the corner of his eye, keeping his own gaze on the fading daylight.

“That’s how you got this,” Tucker chides as he adds another stitch. “Couldn’t retreat with the rest of us.”

Closing his eyes, Wash tries to find the memory but his concussed state isn’t doing him any favours. For once, his near perfect memory is failing him and despite his success in untangling the strands, there are still details missing, too hazy to decipher.

Tucker does his best to fill in the gaps. “We could have made it out, all of us, but you went back to distract Felix and Locus.”

The memory returns in bits and pieces. Washington can hear the sound of gunfire echoing through his head, taste the sweat dripping down his face and feel the gust of wind as the pelican passed low overhead. Tucker’s voice screaming over the COM.

_“Dude! What the fuck are you doing?”_

_“Buying you time! Get everyone out.”_

_“Wash!! Don’t-”_

Felix gets to Wash first. He’s kind of glad that he can’t recall what the merc said to him. Felix is always running his mouth, his words as much of a weapon as his knives; sometimes sharper. But he was holding back, Wash remembers. His blows were meant to cripple and incapacitate, not to kill, which is far more unsettling than the threat of death. Washington thinks of eight different ways he can force Felix’s hand. Twelve if Locus shows up.

He doesn’t get that far into his planning however, because a pelican roars above him with the sound of a chain gun spinning up. There’s a throwing knife in his leg, but he drops to the dirt as Tucker lets loose a hail of bullets that send Felix cowering. The pelican hovers low to the ground, and Tucker extends a hand.

“Wash.”

There’s a small jab to the soft armour of his stomach and Washington jolts hard, head breaking the surface of his thoughts. His hand twitches, ready to reach for his sidearm and drop his assailant, but then he sees Tucker staring back at him.

The fear is there, thinly veiled behind his smirk. “C’mon, man,” he admonishes. “Zoning out while I’ve got my hands on you really hurts a guy’s pride, ya know?”

Washington notices now that both of Tucker’s bare hands are pressed to his inner thigh, smoothing out the adhesive bandage covering the wound. It’s sort of impressive really, between all the blood he’s lost and the jackhammer rhythm still pounding in his brain, that Wash still manages to blush all the way to his ears.

At least it earns an honest grin out of Tucker, though the consequent flutter in Wash’s chest doesn’t help his situation in the least. Leaning his head back against the wall, Wash blows out a deep breath and closes his eyes. Tucker leaves one hand on his leg, but the other comes up to rest on Wash’s chest plate.

“Come on, dude,” he murmurs, fingers prying at the latches. “You need to get some fucking rest.”

Wash disagrees but isn’t quite willing to open his eyes or make a move to actually stop him. “I thought you weren’t supposed to sleep when you’ve got a concussion,” he jeers.

Tucker snorts. “Don’t be a dick.”

They both know how this works. A concussion means plenty of rest, but someone’s gotta be there to wake the patient intermittently. Which means Tucker will have to stay awake.

Wash opens his eyes and takes hold of Tucker’s wrist before he can pull off his chest plate. “Tucker, you don’t have to-” he fumbles for the right words. “You sleep. I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

The sim trooper sighs far more dramatically than is strictly necessary. “Dude,” he breathes. Tucker leans in close, resting his forehead against Wash’s. His hand slides up Wash’s neck, fingers carding into his hair. “Will it really fucking kill you to let _me_ take care of _you_ for once?”

Wash’s lip twitches, threatening a smirk. “It might.”

Tucker chuckles lowly. “Dick.” He presses a kiss to Wash’s lips but it’s over far too soon and he’s pulling away.

Removing Wash’s chest piece, Tucker sets it aside before starting to unlatch his own. Wash raises an eyebrow in question, but Tucker shakes his head. _You’ll see._

He dumps his own chest plate in a heap next to Wash’s before tugging him away from the wall so he can slide in behind him. Tucker’s arms are a comforting warmth as they settle around Wash’s middle. Releasing a deep breathe, Wash leans back against Tucker’s chest and rests his head on the sim trooper’s shoulder.

Tucker gently kisses the top of Wash’s head before leaning back against the wall. “I’ve got you.”

Evidently, he does. It shouldn’t be so easy for Wash to drift away from consciousness. His head is still pounding and they’re stranded in some abandoned city with Locus and Felix no doubt on their trail, but with Tucker watching safely over him, the world could be ending and Wash wouldn’t care.

It only feels like minutes have passed when Tucker wakes him with a gentle nudge. “What’s your name?” he asks.

Wash sighs, but goes through the familiar motions all the same. “Washington.”

“Do you know where we are?”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to remember this time, the memories still neatly unravelled for him. “Chorus, some city. Busted hospital.”

“It’s the city of Lyri. My name?”

Wash huffs in exasperation, but smirks. “Lavernius.”

Tucker grumbles quietly. “Whose fault is it that we’re stranded?”

“Fuck you,” Wash breathes, nuzzling closer into Tucker’s neck as he lets his thoughts drift back to sleep. Though not before Tucker gets to have the final word, barely a whisper in his ear.

“You wish.”

This trend continues as the night wears on, and Wash correctly responds to Tucker’s inquiries with an eighty-six percent success rate. He never falters on his name or Tucker’s, only the details of their particular circumstance. To be fair, it’s just as likely a result of his half-conscious state as it is of his concussion. Or you know, just his regular knotted mess of a head.

This time when he wakes, it’s to a low humming sound, growing steadily louder. The Freelancer stirs, stretching his legs and trying his best to block out the sound as he presses closer to the warmth at his back.

“Wash.”

The tight, clipped tone of Tucker’s voice is startling, and Wash jerks awake enough to recognize that humming sound. It’s a pelican.

Washington bolts upright, pushing off of Tucker’s chest. The movement sends a stab of pain reverberating through Wash’s head, but he isn’t the only one to wince.

Tucker groans unhappily, hands leaving Wash’s waist to snake around his own middle as he muffles a cough into his shoulder. “Son of a bitch!”

The Freelancer doesn’t spare him a glance, moving towards the window and pressing his back to the wall as he peers outward. A single pelican hovers over the city, passing slowly over the ruined buildings, searching. Locus and Felix.

Wash’s mind is already racing, forming plans. They need to move _now_. It won’t take them long to check the hospital. Too obvious. They should have grabbed the supplies and taken cover elsewhere. Wash glances down at the barren streets below. It’s too dangerous to set out in the open, but maybe the subway tunnels are still intact? They passed plenty of entrances in the streets earlier, though if they venture down and find them caved in, they’re only cornering themselves.

The sound of a radio crackling interrupts his train of thought, and Wash spins around to look accusingly at his discarded helmet. Tucker hasn’t moved, but his gaze is drawn there too.

Striding back over, Wash picks up his helmet and carefully lowers it over his head.

A familiar voice fills his ears immediately. “Wash, Tucker? Do you read me? Please respond!”

“Carolina!” Wash exclaims, relief coursing through him. “Tell me that’s you guys flying over the city.”

Caboose’s elated voice is the next to pipe up. “Oh! Oh! Agent Washington is somewhere he can see us! This is the best game of hide and seek.”

“That could literally be half the city!” Epsilon counters.

Wash could cry he’s so happy, but when he turns to look at Tucker he freezes.

The sim trooper’s eyes are screwed shut and his breaths are laboured. He looks pale, and his arms are still folded protectively around his middle. How did Wash not notice how bad he looked?

“Tucker?”

Wash abandons his helmet, though not before activating a homing beacon for the others to find them.

He rushes to Tucker’s side, ignoring the pain in his thigh as he kneels down next to him. He puts a firm hand on the sim trooper’s shoulder, eyes scanning his body for any signs of injury. “Tucker, what’s wrong?”

Shaking his head absently, Tucker coughs into his opposite shoulder, but this time Wash notices the blood at the corners of his mouth.

“M’fine, dude,” he replies weakly. “You said that’s Carolina and the others?”

This is not what fine looks like. Coughing up blood means internal bleeding, which means Tucker hasn’t been fine for a _long_ while.

Wash wants to scream. His blood boils with rage as he reaches back to unsnap his healing unit from his armour slot. “So after all your scolding for my self-sacrificing behavior, you turn around and do the same?!” he rants, voice turning shrill.

Tucker has the bald-faced audacity to grin. “I guess you’re a bad influence, dude.”

At least he has the good sense to comply when Wash tips him forward to snap the healing unit into the equipment slot of his armour. He knows the moment it starts working, because Wash can see Tucker’s face relax somewhat, his eyes fluttering.

Blowing out a deep breath, Tucker flashes a smile. “Thanks, dude.”

Washington wants to throttle Tucker himself. The sound of the pelican’s engine draws closer, but it still has the blood pounding in his ears to contend with. Wash struggles to form a coherent sentence. “You- I cannot believe- Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Despite his sorry state, Tucker manages to slant a condemning look at Wash. “C’mon, dude. You would’ve given up the healing unit immediately. You needed it more than me.”

Wash opens his mouth to argue, but Tucker waves him off. “Nah, fuck off.” His glare turns angry. “I’m fucking sick of you thinking your life is worth less than the rest of ours.”

It rankles. Wash glares and grits his teeth, and hates himself because he can’t think of anything to say in his defense. “You should have told me,” he mutters.

Tucker laughs. “Fine. You stop being a self-sacrificing dickhead, and I’ll let you know next time I have a stomach ache.”

The pelican’s turbines rumble loud as it passes over the hospital, landing in a courtyard. There are voices buzzing from his helmet again, but Wash doesn’t pay attention, still scowling at Tucker.

This isn’t over.

Wash isn’t close to done with being angry about this. Tucker could still be seriously injured, and they won’t know until they get back to Armonia and Grey can take a proper look at him.

The sim trooper releases a short breath. “Look, dude, I’m s-”

A voice echoes through the hospital, thundering over the whir of the pelican’s engines. “Ready or not, here we come!!!”

With a small shake of his head, Wash pulls himself to his feet. “Come on,” he sighs, “let’s go before Caboose brings down the building.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tucker agrees. He extends an arm, looking up at Wash expectantly. “You gonna help me up, or what?”

Wash considers for a moment, but does help Tucker to his feet. “I thought you didn’t need any help getting it up?” he jabs, pulling the sim trooper close against his chest.

Tucker’s eyebrows shoot upward, taken aback as a smile slowly spreads across his face. “Dude, since when do _you_ have jokes?”

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Wash steadies Tucker with a hand on his waist. “I guess you’re a bad influence.”


End file.
